


Not Blunt or Rounded

by blehgah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, Sharing Clothes, also i love 95line too much can you tell, angst with a vague ending more like it tbh, but devolves into... who knows, i just wanted to get it out of my system lmao, i literally wrote this in one night so don't expect it to be Great, ishhh, starts out kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: Things are different now. Seungcheol and Jihoon no longer have the relationship they used to have; things feel sharper, somehow—but that doesn't necessarily make them undesirable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is brought to you by blood sweat tears and lie, which i played on repeat as i wrote this  
> also brought to you by procrastination, as usual

Things are different now.

Things are different now, Jihoon thinks, curling his hands in his lap as he watches Seungcheol sling an arm around Seungkwan’s neck. The pair dance around a bit like that, easy roughhousing because Seungkwan likes to touch and Seungcheol likes it, too, like some insatiable puppy.

Jihoon remembers a time when he was the one with a lap full of Seungcheol—and really, it wasn’t just his lap. Seungcheol often chose his shoulder as a pillow, or his stomach, or the top of his head.

He remembers with ease. He remembers Seungcheol’s palms, warm through the fabric of his t-shirt, like they’d touched only a minute ago.

And they could be embracing now, like Seungcheol was with Seungkwan; there was nothing stopping Jihoon from getting to his feet and closing the distance between their bodies. There was nothing but his own will keeping him rooted in his seat, watching, uncertain, apprehensive.

Jihoon returns to his laptop and adjusts the cap on his head.

He remembers a time when he and Seungcheol exchanged hats, too. It’s hard to keep track of clothes when enough of them are around the same size and have the kind of housekeeping habits that they do. But they used to share, even just loosely.

They used to do a lot of things.

Jihoon pops in his earbuds and tries to forget about the past.

 

* * *

 

Sighing, Seungcheol flops onto his back, his legs sticking up over the back of the couch. Half the lights in the room are off, thanks to the late hour.

Jeonghan circles the couch and takes a seat on the other side. His company is warm, his side comfortable against Seungcheol’s.

“You should go to bed, Cheol,” Jeonghan says, playing with the hem of one of Seungcheol’s sleeves.

“So should you,” Seungcheol replies. “I’m surprised you’re not already.”

For a moment, Jeonghan is quiet. He drops Seungcheol’s sleeve in favour of digging around his pockets for his phone.

“Someone has to look after you,” Jeonghan mumbles eventually.

“Don’t baby me,” Seungcheol whines.

“Don’t be so ungrateful,” Jeonghan retorts, but there’s no heat to it at all.

Seungcheol stares up at the ceiling. He kicks his legs back and forth for a while in an attempt to keep his nervous energy at bay.

“I’m worried,” Seungcheol starts. He’s unsure how to finish the thought, so he lets it trail off, his eyes still trained on the ceiling.

“I figured,” Jeonghan replies like some all-knowing sage. Then again, Jeonghan has gotten better at reading him these days—and while he’s not soft around the edges like Jisoo, there’s a certain fight in him that Seungcheol appreciates and tries to keep around in times like these.

“It’s—” Seungcheol stops and sighs. His words are caught in his throat, thick brambles tripping him up. He closes his eyes and tries to push through.

“It’s Jihoon,” he manages, breath soft between barely-open lips, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jeonghan didn’t hear him at all.

Jeonghan hums. _Of course it’s Jihoon_ , the vibration seems to say, but Seungcheol knows that the disdain in Jeonghan’s imaginary voice is, well, imaginary.

“What about him?” Jeonghan asks. “Did he come back late or something?”

That’s the thing, there—Seungcheol doesn’t know Jihoon’s schedule anymore. He doesn’t know if Jihoon’s arrival to the dorms at midnight is late or early. Although Seungcheol is leader, Jihoon is a leader in his own right—not to mention a grown man. He’s a grown man who also happens to have a staff of managers to keep him on track.

No need for Seungcheol anymore.

“Not sure,” Seungcheol says slowly. Jeonghan turns to look at him.

“So what is it?” Jeonghan asks.

There are a multitude of things Seungcheol could say to answer that question. _Worry_ wouldn’t cover all his bases, but it’s the easiest thing to say, especially when he can barely wrap his own head around the thoughts bouncing fitfully around the confines of his skull.

He definitely misses something. There’s a lack of—something. He finds compensation elsewhere: he finds warmth in between Minghao’s fingers, he finds softness in Mingyu’s embrace, he finds stable footing in the banter with the man currently sharing his body heat. He finds compensation, but sometimes, he doesn’t think it’s enough.

Of course it’s incomparable. Of course things are different now. But that doesn’t mean he can’t miss it.

Seungcheol drops both hands onto his face. He hopes it’ll block out the mess of thoughts rampaging through his head; at best, it blocks out Jeonghan’s worried eyes.

“Never mind,” Seungcheol says, slinging his legs around so that his head hits the side of Jeonghan’s thigh.

Jeonghan threads his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair for a second or two.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Jeonghan says, returning to his phone.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything in response. He’s infinitely grateful, of course, but his tongue is tied in knots and his teeth are locked in place. Words continue to fail him when he needs them most—when a good chunk of his goddamn living depends on them.

He clenches his eyes shut.

“Seungcheol-ah,” he hears someone say.

He sits up. Jeonghan is absent, and his feet have fallen asleep from where they were left dangling over the armrest.

As he flinches, his visitor chuckles, taking a seat in the newly freed space.

“Sleeping on the couch, huh? Sloppy,” the person continues, their voice bouncing with mirth.

Seungcheol slumps and slides down to stretch out his legs. When he turns his head, he sees one Lee Jihoon—but not as he currently knows him.

This Jihoon is smaller, skinnier, but brighter, somehow. Surreal. The roots of his hair are stark against the bleach blond locks that fall into his grinning eyes.

One of Jihoon’s hands finds the hem of Seungcheol’s shirt. Jihoon rolls it between his fingers for a second before letting it fall away. Instead, he wraps his arms around his knees, which he’s pressed against his chest.

“You can do better than this,” Jihoon says around a wry smile.

Seungcheol’s brow furrows. Then he rolls his eyes and tackles Jihoon, wrapping his arms around his tiny waist and pressing him against the armrest.

“Hey!” Jihoon cries, but his voice veers off into a fit of giggles. He kicks his legs but doesn’t do much else to fight Seungcheol’s grip.

“Shut up, yeah?” Seungcheol grumbles. He shifts so that his arm is wound around Jihoon’s neck, then he musses Jihoon’s hair to oblivion. “Is that any way to talk to your hyung?”

“You set yourself up!” Jihoon shouts. He claws at Seungcheol’s arms, but it means nothing, accomplishes nothing.

Seungcheol imagines green walls and mirrors all around him. He imagines Doyoon, a sturdy presence by his side. He imagines their names printed on their shirts—their real names, a bit too honest for fame, a bit too real for the camera.

Eventually, Jihoon settles. He squirms a little as he claims his phone from his pocket, but he stills once it’s safe in his hands.

“Hey, there’s something I wanted to show you,” he says, producing a pair of white earbuds. He pops one into his ear and holds out the other one in Seungcheol’s direction.

When Seungcheol goes to grab it, he falls.

“Seungcheol-ah!”

Seungcheol blinks his eyes open. His back is on the cold, hard floor, and peach hair dangles in front of his vision.

“What’s happening…?” mumbles a sleepy Jeonghan.

Seungcheol turns his head and almost bumps his cheek into Jeonghan’s shoe. He must have fallen off the couch in his sleep.

Jisoo crouches and offers Seungcheol a hand, wearing his signature warm smile. Seungcheol takes the hand, blinking the drowsiness out of his eyes, trying to understand the lights assaulting his hazy vision. All of them are on now, a sign of someone more thorough than Seungcheol.

“Oof,” Jisoo huffs. He doesn’t really help Seungcheol to his feet, but his hand in Seungcheol’s acts as an anchor he desperately needs.

“Don’t leave me alone with the kids,” Jisoo says with a half grin.

“But the kids love you,” Jeonghan mutters, getting to his feet unassisted. With one hand, he rubs at his eyes, and he winds the other around Jisoo’s waist.

“There are ten of them and I can only do so much,” Jisoo deadpans. He moves his arm to accommodate Jeonghan’s body.

Seungcheol drops Jisoo’s hand without a fuss. His stomach twists, just as fitful as his restless thoughts, as he observes his friends tangled in each other with such ease.

He remembers a time when he held Jihoon with the same ease, the same sense of comfort. Something cold crawls into the spaces between his ribs where he once knew warmth, and he grinds his teeth to distract himself from such a pathetic train of thought.

Things are different now. Things always change, but it doesn’t mean he’s lacking in any way.

It doesn’t mean he can’t miss it, though.

 

* * *

 

They end up shopping together. It happens every now and then, when they have time off and a craving for some retail therapy.

It’s not like they’re avoiding each other. It’s not like they’re avoiding _each other_ , per se—more like a version of each other that they can’t forget, a ghost that won’t leave them alone, memories both cold and warm on the edges of their brains.

As they sit shoulder to shoulder in Starbucks, bags at their feet, Jihoon catches Seungcheol regarding him with an awfully fond look. Jihoon lowers his cup, his straw resting against his fingers through the sleeve draped way past his wrists.

“Was there anywhere else you wanted to go?” Jihoon asks. It’s innocent and shallow; it’s not the question he wants to ask, but it’s the safe option, and Jihoon has been opting for _safe_ around Seungcheol more often than not.

Seungcheol hums, turning his head to look out the store window. Jihoon returns his straw to his mouth while he waits for a reply.

“Nah,” Seungcheol says. His eyes drift back to Jihoon, but they’re not quite as warm as they were only a moment ago. “But,” he continues, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner on the way back.”

 _Just us?_ Jihoon thinks. It’s been a while. Something beats against the walls of his stomach; he puts his drink down onto the counter in front of them and passes it between his hands.

“Sure,” Jihoon replies. He focuses on his cup instead of looking Seungcheol in the eyes.

“Cool.”

When Jihoon looks up again, Seungcheol is on his phone, typing away. Jihoon resists the urge to sigh, smothering it with the remains of his drink.

 

* * *

 

They end up in the back of the van together. There’s enough space in the backseat that they don’t have to sit shoulder to shoulder, but part of Seungcheol wants to; the louder part of his brain tells him to stay in his goddamn lane.

Jihoon’s on his phone as Seungcheol looks over at him. Seungcheol admires his profile against the sunlight filtering through the window. Jihoon’s hair is a bit darker now, but nothing approaching his natural hair colour.

The urge to smooth it down bubbles briefly in Seungcheol’s chest; it doesn’t take as much effort as he’d thought to stamp it down.

An especially sharp turn sends Jihoon tumbling into his side. Jihoon’s phone slides out of his grip onto the newly-freed space next to his hip.

When the car rights itself, Jihoon picks his phone back up, but he doesn’t make any other moves. His eyes remain on his screen, but he slowly, slowly rests his head onto Seungcheol’s chest.

Smiling, Seungcheol slides his arm out from under Jihoon’s back and wraps it around Jihoon’s shoulders. Jihoon glances at him for less than a second before returning his gaze to his phone. The ghost of a smile lingers on his mouth. Seungcheol can’t decide how he feels about that, so he turns his attention to the world speeding past them outside the window.

The spell is broken when the van comes to a halt and Jihoon staggers out without even glancing in his direction.

 

* * *

 

These days, Seungcheol helps Jihoon more with production. In Jihoon’s studio, they can feel the echoes of their past even more strongly. Their musical compatibility is something they can’t deny, and it’s something that’s not quite as heavy as everything else. It’s familiar, but ingrained on a different level, something that won’t, can’t bend to the tides of change.

When Seungcheol ducks into Jihoon’s studio, he freezes in the doorway. Jihoon looks up when he realizes that he can still hear the faint buzz of activity from outside.

“Close the door, hyung,” Jihoon mutters, turning back around in his seat.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Seungcheol says.

Jihoon freezes.

“What?”

“My shirt,” Seungcheol repeats, “you’re wearing it.”

Jihoon looks down. He’s wearing a striped shirt with long sleeves. He has a few of them in his closet, but, as he’d been thinking only a little while ago, it’s way too easy to mix up clothes in their dorm.

The sleeves don’t go as far down his arms as he would normally expect, he supposes.

“Sorry,” Jihoon mumbles. He braces his weight by putting both hands on the arms of his chair. “I can change, if you want,” he offers.

With some effort, he lifts his head to meet Seungcheol’s eyes. They’re trained on Jihoon with an unidentifiable sharpness. Jihoon swallows, knife points pressed into his skin, and fights the urge to fidget.

After a few moments of silence, Seungcheol exhales. Jihoon does the same; he doesn’t remember when he started holding his breath.

“No, it’s fine,” Seungcheol says. A wry smile warps his mouth. “Looks good on you,” he adds.

Jihoon’s blood burns hot in his throat. He really hopes it doesn’t climb any higher than that.

“Um…” Jihoon ducks his head and turns his chair around. “Thanks.”

Thankfully, Seungcheol doesn’t press the issue. He pulls up a chair next to Jihoon and examines what Jihoon has up on his monitor.

 

* * *

 

That’s not the last time Jihoon wears one of Seungcheol’s clothes.

“Oh,” Seungcheol says. Air rattles around in his chest as he tries to remember how to breathe. “That’s my sweater,” he points out.

Jihoon blinks, not quite fluttering his eyelashes.

“Really?” Jihoon ducks his head and picks at the sweater in question. He’s not wearing a shirt under it; Seungcheol can see his collarbones clear as day. “I swear I remember buying this, though.”

The gears in Seungcheol’s head are running overtime. Although he doesn’t think Jihoon is lying, Seungcheol has worn this sweater on several occasions.

Seungcheol dips his hand into his pocket, looking for his phone. He has pictures of himself wearing this sweater. However, he thinks better of it when a corner of Jihoon’s lips quirk upward, sharp as a swordpoint, the line of his lips the edge of a blade.

“Well,” Seungcheol says. He trails off and Jihoon’s smile takes on a softer, sweeter shade to it. “Maybe I’m thinking of something else,” Seungcheol amends.

Jihoon’s smile widens.

“Better get your head in the game,” Jihoon says. Then he’s turning on his heel and walking off.

When Seungcheol sees the logo printed on the back of the sweater, he knows for certain that the sweater is, in fact, his.

The next time Jihoon is wearing something that is _definitely_ not his, he’s even more shameless about it.

Again, Seungcheol’s caught standing in the doorway to Jihoon’s studio. He narrows his eyes when Jihoon turns to face him. This time, Seungcheol remembers to shut the door. He locks it behind him before taking slow steps into the room.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Seungcheol accuses.

Jihoon spins in his chair a few times. When he comes to a stop, he plants both hands between his thighs and grins up at Seungcheol.

“Maybe,” Jihoon says.

“Dare I ask why?” Seungcheol asks, but he finds Jihoon’s smile contagious; the corners of his own mouth begin to curl upwards.

Jihoon shrugs. “The first time was an accident, I swear,” Jihoon explains. “The next few times...” He shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Seungcheol repeats.

All Jihoon can do is shrug, apparently. He moves his hands into his lap and plays with the end of a sleeve. Once more, Jihoon isn’t wearing a shirt under the sweater. It’s not quite zipped up all the way, either; the top of his chest peeks out from behind the fabric.

Seungcheol isn’t sure what’s so perplexing about this. Why Seungcheol’s sweaters, of all things? Why wear them in front of him? Why dance around the issue?

Jihoon swims in the sweater, like he does in most of his clothes. Seungcheol doesn’t think Jihoon owns anything that fits him properly. He looks small and unbearably cute; Seungcheol wants to gather him up in his arms and squeeze the life out of him.

When Seungcheol steps into the room, he stops in front of Jihoon’s chair. Jihoon looks up at him and offers him a small smile.

“Does it bother you?” Jihoon asks.

“Not sure if ‘bother’ is the word I want to use,” Seungcheol begins slowly, “but there’s definitely—something. Definitely something about the whole thing.”

One of Jihoon’s hands climbs up to play with the zipper. He pulls it up, then down, then up, then down; when he drops his hand again, the zipper is even lower than it was before.

“Are you—”

“They’re surprisingly comfortable,” Jihoon begins, cutting him off, “but honestly, I was just wondering how long it’d take for you to do something about it.” He turns around to face his monitor. “Though I guess it doesn’t bother you as much as I thought it would.”

Seungcheol swallows. He’s just not sure what to do about any of this right now.

He pulls up his usual chair, but when he tries to focus on the information on the screen in front of him, his mind goes blank. All he can think of is the lines of Jihoon’s collarbones and the milkiness of his skin.

Just as Jihoon’s in the middle of asking Seungcheol a question, Seungcheol blurts, “It bothers me.”

Slowly, Jihoon turns his chair around. He’s smirking when he says, “Yeah?”

Seungcheol nods dumbly.

“Are you going to do anything about it?” Jihoon asks. The smirk on his face widens.

This is—well, it’s definitely not what they used to do. It has similar shades of playfulness, but there’s something much sharper to it. There’s always something sharp between them these days, something with spines that carves out a rift between them.

Maybe they’re done dancing around it.

Seungcheol reaches out and takes the zipper in his hand. Jihoon stares at him, his face falling blank as he watches.

“Well,” Seungcheol says, “I guess I ought to… take it back.”

He pulls the zipper down. He can hear every tooth of the zipper click as he slides it open, revealing Jihoon’s chest and stomach slowly, slowly. Jihoon’s stomach twitches as Seungcheol’s fingers brush his skin.

When Seungcheol tugs at the sweater, Jihoon follows the movement, sliding across his chair. Eventually, he’s pulled into Seungcheol’s lap. Seungcheol’s hands settle on Jihoon’s shoulders, under each side of the open sweater.

“This is—” Seungcheol starts. His hands are frozen on Jihoon’s skin.

“Yeah?” Jihoon prompts.

Seungcheol looks up from the sweater and meets Jihoon’s eyes. Jihoon’s breath falls quick and shallow in the infinitesimal space between them, warm and moist against the column of Seungcheol’s neck.

“Is this—” Seungcheol tries again. He furrows his brow. “Is this okay?” he finally asks.

Jihoon lifts a hand. He presses the end of a sleeve against the edge of Seungcheol’s jaw.

“Is it?” Jihoon asks.

Seungcheol scoffs. It’s enough to get him to push the sweater down Jihoon’s back, but the way that Jihoon’s arms are positioned make it impossible for Seungcheol to pluck the article of clothing from his body.

That leaves Seungcheol without much to do. Eventually, he opts for settling his hands against the curve of Jihoon’s waist. Jihoon shivers under his touch. The minimal movement only invites Seungcheol to spread his fingers, smoothing his hands over Jihoon’s skin.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Seungcheol says again.

“You’re the one who wanted it back,” Jihoon counters.

He’s not wrong. He’s definitely doing this on purpose.

Seungcheol stares at Jihoon. Jihoon stares back.

Now what?

“I can’t take it back if your arms are still in it,” Seungcheol states.

“You’re right,” Jihoon replies. He lifts his other arm and rests his wrist limply on Seungcheol’s shoulder. It doesn’t stay long, however; he drops it, and soon enough, both hands are in Jihoon’s lap.

With careful movements, Seungcheol pulls the sweater off Jihoon’s hands. He holds it in a bundle close to his chest.

“Now what?” Jihoon asks. Part of Seungcheol is surprised to hear the question out loud.

Jihoon’s thighs are warm against Seungcheol’s. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and the backs of his knuckles rest gingerly against the front of Seungcheol’s jeans.

“You did this on purpose,” Seungcheol says again. It doesn’t sound accusatory this time around, as if he’s finally in on the joke.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Yes, Seungcheol, I did it on purpose,” he says. He pokes the middle of Seungcheol’s chest with a light touch. “So, are you gonna do something about it or not?”

Seungcheol drops the sweater onto the floor. Now that his hands are free, he smooths them up the front of Jihoon’s body. Jihoon’s reaction is immediate, and Seungcheol can feel it under his touch, the vibration travelling all the way down to his stomach—maybe even lower.

Something hot flutters in his chest. It stretches over his ribs, covering his heart and lungs in taut heat, amplifying the beat of his heart while containing it at the same time.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Seungcheol asks. His voice has dropped down to a whisper, breathless uncertainty; none of this seems real. He thinks he might have dreamt of something like this some time ago, but he’s had plenty of dreams starring Jihoon; he can’t recall details anymore.

“Yes, Seungcheol,” Jihoon replies, but he does nothing.

Seungcheol’s eyes drag over Jihoon’s face. Jihoon’s face is blank, save for tension in his jaw from biting his lip. Seungcheol lifts a hand to Jihoon’s cheek and gently pulls his lip out from between his teeth.

Again, Seungcheol wants to ask if this is okay, if this is fine, if this is _real_ , but he thinks better of it—if this is all some fever dream, he’d rather be woken up than turn things in the wrong direction himself.

He tugs Jihoon’s chin closer, impatient for their lips to meet, and Jihoon follows his hand obediently. When their mouths touch, Jihoon curls towards Seungcheol’s body. He tucks his arms against Seungcheol’s chest, hands hovering, still cautious.

It’s always up to Seungcheol to carry things out. He tilts his head and slides his lips until Jihoon finally, _finally_ moves—and when he does, it’s like a dam collapsing under the pressure of leagues and leagues of water. Seungcheol seizes the opportunity with both hands and dives in head first.

Jihoon’s reciprocation is the permission Seungcheol’s been seeking ever since this started. It speaks louder than Jihoon’s hesitant words, speaks more than Jihoon’s voice ever could. He blossoms under Seungcheol’s touch, opening for Seungcheol’s tongue like a flower, skin soft as petals and tinged a pretty pink.

When Seungcheol pulls away, he smooths his thumb over Jihoon’s bottom lip, now slightly swollen.

“I’m not dreaming, right?” he asks softly. Jihoon snorts, and Seungcheol can feel his breath fan over his skin.

“Some dream this would be,” Jihoon mutters, but the wistful tone he takes says that maybe this is something he’s dreamed about, too.

Seungcheol grins. He goes in for another kiss because he can, but mostly because—well, he wants to. The plushness of Jihoon’s mouth against his fulfills a certain craving imprinted on the walls of his stomach, but it spurs hunger in him at the same time. As he licks Jihoon’s mouth open, Jihoon whimpers, and Seungcheol doesn’t think he could ever hear enough of the sound. He swallows it up hungrily.

“We’re not gonna get any work done, are we,” Jihoon pants; it’s not a question.

Seungcheol grins, though it feels more like baring his teeth than anything, and shakes his head.

“You should know the answer to that one, since you instigated the whole damn thing,” Seungcheol replies.

Jihoon manages a wry grin. The redness of his lips draws Seungcheol’s attention immediately.

“You’re right,” Jihoon says. He licks his lips, but soon enough, his tongue is caught between Seungcheol’s teeth and he whines.

They don’t get any work done that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a craving to write smut, so.

Jihoon doesn’t stop wearing Seungcheol’s clothes. The shirts and sweaters are both big enough and simple enough in style that no one but Seungcheol notices—and to be honest, he’s thankful. He doesn’t know how he’d answer if anyone asked him about it.

Neither of them address it out loud. Jihoon sometimes catches him staring and smirks, slow and wide and infuriatingly pleased. The expression never fails to ignite something hot and bright in the pit of Seungcheol’s belly, which only pisses him off even more.

One day, Seungcheol grabs Jihoon by the shoulders and spins him around, pinning him to the studio door.

“What’s your deal?” he growls into Jihoon’s ear.

Jihoon flinches and tucks his head in against his chest, but he covers it up in no time, smiling thinly at Seungcheol.

“Maybe this would happen less if you cleaned up more,” Jihoon replies. “You leave your shit lying around so often I can’t be bothered with sorting everything out.”

“Bullshit.”

Jihoon’s egging him on—that’s gotta be it. This has stretched way past an accident, and Seungcheol can tell by the way Jihoon’s mouth quirks up into a wry smile. He’s trying to pin the responsibility on Seungcheol, leaving all the big decisions up to him, and honestly? That would be fine in any other circumstance. Seungcheol is used to picking up after his dongsaengs, sometimes literally leading them by the hand, but this isn’t something that Jihoon can just dump in his lap. He can’t be the only one to blame if things go sour.

Why can’t Jihoon just be straightforward about any of this? It would make Seungcheol’s life so much fucking easier.

The last time Seungcheol decided to ignore things in hopes they would eventually fix themselves, it ended in disaster. Seungcheol has no trouble looping the scene over and over in his head.

But this has nothing to do with the group as a whole. This is just between them, this  _ thing _ mangled by so many expectations and responsibilities and unsaid words. Jihoon isn’t so good at that whole putting it in words thing—and yeah, sometimes Seungcheol isn’t either. Sometimes saying things out loud makes them too real to handle.

There  _ is _ something between them, though, whether Jihoon admits to it aloud or not. This must be Jihoon’s way of forcing Seungcheol to do the work for him—to make him address it and drag it out of the closet it’s been hiding in.

Strutting around wearing his clothes makes Seungcheol want to rip them right off Jihoon’s body, and he  _ supposes _ that’s one way of tackling things.

Still, there is some hesitation to Seungcheol’s hands as he grabs the hem of his shirt draped across Jihoon’s shoulders. He tugs it, a warning, and catches Jihoon’s gaze.

“What do you even want, Jihoon-ah?” Seungcheol sighs, dropping his hands. He’s no mind reader, despite his efforts, and in the end, he can’t force these things. Not when they could blow up right in his face.

Jihoon shrugs. “It’s you who wants it back, right?” Jihoon asks, deflecting as usual.

Seungcheol sighs again. He pulls the shirt up slowly, watching the too-long sleeves bunch up before sliding up Jihoon’s arms like a deflated balloon. Instead of taking it off completely, Seungcheol holds the shirt in a ball above Jihoon’s head, keeping Jihoon’s hands in place against the door.

“—Seungcheol,” Jihoon says, his voice clipped. His chest trembles as he holds his breath, his eyes trained up at his hyung.

_ What do you really want? _ Seungcheol wants to ask, but he knows he would never get a straight answer to that. There’s nothing particularly straight about the whole situation, anyway. He gives the mind reading thing another go instead, gauging Jihoon’s expression.

Jihoon’s eyes are wide as they stare back at Seungcheol. His lips are parted to let shaky breaths escape, and there’s a flush sitting pretty in his cheeks. Seungcheol’s head goes a little fuzzy as Jihoon’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

With a quiet hum, Seungcheol dips his head. Just as their lips are about to touch, Seungcheol pulls back and Jihoon follows him, craning his neck. As Seungcheol continues to pull out of reach, Jihoon finds himself unable to chase, held back by the way his arms are pinned above his head.

“H-Hey,” Jihoon mumbles. His sentence trails off in a puff of breath, and then he’s scowling.

Seungcheol grins. “What?” Seungcheol asks, and his sweet tone of voice clashes strongly with the devilish smile on his face.

Jihoon wiggles in his restraints, but it seems that he’s unable to find the words to voice what’s bothering him. His mouth twists and his eyes fall to the side.

“Don’t…” Jihoon starts. He takes a steadying breath and plows on, “Don’t tease me, Seungcheol.”

A wide grin splits Seungcheol’s face in half. “Oh? You’re the one saying that to me, huh?”

Again, Seungcheol leans in. Jihoon tilts his chin up, but his eyes stay open, wary of Seungcheol’s intent. His gaze falls to Seungcheol’s mouth as it comes within reach, and his eyes cross. Seungcheol laughs at the sight, pulling back again.

“Seungcheol!” Jihoon whines.

Seungcheol gives himself a second to savour the moment, drinking in the dark flush settled in Jihoon’s cheeks and the pretty arch of his back as he leans into Seungcheol’s space, before he finally eliminates the distance between their mouths. 

At first, Jihoon stiffens and holds his breath again. His chest is tense and hard and much too warm against Seungcheol’s stomach. But it’s not long before he melts, his mouth pliant against Seungcheol’s—maybe even a tiny bit desperate, like he’s been thinking about this for a while. He welcomes Seungcheol’s tongue with a soft sigh and Seungcheol has to fight the urge to grin. 

Seungcheol slides a hand up the curve of Jihoon’s neck, stroking his skin with his thumb. Their height difference is not colossal, not like the difference between Jihoon and Mingyu, but Jihoon still needs to strain to meet his mouth.

There is a very good solution to this problem, and Seungcheol doesn’t need to think twice: he drops Jihoon’s arms in favour of scooping Jihoon up by the back of his thighs. Seungcheol pulls back and Jihoon squeaks as Seungcheol hoists him up against the door.

Breathing quickly, Jihoon lowers his hands into his lap. He licks his lips, a nervous gesture, before yanking the shirt from his arms. He drops it on the floor and grabs at the back of Seungcheol’s head, pulling him in for another kiss.

Seungcheol maneuvers Jihoon’s body with ease, opening his legs so that Seungcheol can slot himself between them. Jihoon breaks away then, and he presses his face against Seungcheol’s neck.

His lips move against Seungcheol’s skin as he murmurs Seungcheol’s name. The sound travels over Seungcheol’s body and settles heavily in his gut.

Seungcheol shifts his hands and cups the curve of Jihoon’s ass. As he kneads Jihoon through his sweats, Jihoon arches his back and rests his head against the door with a slight bounce.

“Seungcheol…” Jihoon says again, looking down at Seungcheol with hooded eyes. He swallows and Seungcheol can feel the movement thanks to their proximity. 

There’s a question here, something hanging on the tip of Jihoon’s tongue. For a second, Seungcheol’s mouth twists into a vicious grin—this time, he won’t let Jihoon escape. Pinned against the wall like this, there’s nowhere for him to go _. _

“Yes?” Seungcheol asks. He presses his weight forward and Jihoon opens up for him, even squeezes Seungcheol’s waist with his thighs.

Jihoon swallows again. Seungcheol turns his head and licks at Jihoon’s shifting Adam’s apple.

“I—” Jihoon’s breath catches his in throat. Seungcheol can feel it under his tongue. He worries the spot for a bit before chasing after it, dragging his mouth down the length of Jihoon’s throat.

For a few moments, all Jihoon can do is whine and whimper under Seungcheol’s touch. He tilts his hips upwards a few inches and Seungcheol grins again.

“Seungcheol… let’s…” Jihoon starts, but he trails off with a shaky exhale. Seungcheol leans back, lips wet, and levels a stare at him.

“Let’s?” Seungcheol prompts.

Jihoon looks him in the eye, his brow furrowed.

“Do I need to say it out loud?” Jihoon grumbles, his voice thick and rough. Seungcheol wants to record it and save it for a rainy day.

“If you’re not clear, you might not get what you want,” Seungcheol replies.

Jihoon chews on his bottom lip for a second, considering. Seungcheol leans forward and pulls it out from Jihoon’s teeth so he can nibble on it instead.

A low noise clatters around Jihoon’s throat and he bats at Seungcheol’s chest.

“Don’t,” he mutters, barely moving his mouth. “Distracting.”

With a shrug, Seungcheol tilts his head and dips his tongue into Jihoon’s mouth. Jihoon relaxes some, relieved of the pressure of replying for a few seconds.

When Seungcheol pulls away again, Jihoon follows him and rests his cheek against Seungcheol’s opposite.

“I want you,” Jihoon whispers. He punctuates his sentiment with a roll of his hips, wrenching Seungcheol’s breath right out of his lungs.

It’s vague, but Seungcheol is pretty sure that’s all he’s going to get. He supposes it’s better than nothing. 

Seungcheol lifts Jihoon a little higher against the door. Jihoon tilts his head back, watching Seungcheol with heavy eyelids, chewing his lip again. His chest trembles just slightly as Seungcheol drags his tongue down Jihoon’s neck, pausing to nip at his collarbones and stopping at a nipple. He gives it a kiss first, gauging Jihoon’s reaction. Sighing, Jihoon wiggles his hips, seeking friction. His breath grows heavy as Seungcheol plays with the bud until it hardens, and then he moves onto the next one.

“Seungcheol…” Jihoon groans, grabbing at Seungcheol’s hair.

Humming, Seungcheol rests his chin in the curve of Jihoon’s shoulder. He drops feather-light kisses down the slope of Jihoon’s skin, impossibly affectionate. 

“Jihoonie,” he purrs. He gives Jihoon’s bum a gentle pat with both hands. “Gonna need to take these off.”

Jihoon swallows and nods. Slowly, Seungcheol lowers Jihoon onto his feet. His knees buckle, but he catches his weight on Seungcheol’s outstretched arms. 

There’s a pregnant pause as both of them stand still, observing the minimal space between them. This is Jihoon’s opportunity to leave—as well as Seungcheol’s. This is an opportunity for doubt to douse the heat built between their bodies and throw them into limbo yet again. 

With a sharp inhale, Jihoon shoves his hand into his pocket. 

“Here,” he mumbles without looking up. He presses a tube into Seungcheol’s slack palm. 

“Wh—?” Seungcheol’s questioning sound turns into a gasp as realization hits him. “ _ Holy shit _ —”

“Shut up!” Jihoon barks. Hurried with frustration and embarrassment, Jihoon shucks his pants and his boxers off in one go. 

Meanwhile, Seungcheol can only stare at the tube in his hand. Jihoon had planned ahead. He’d been expecting this, somehow. 

The thought brings a new onslaught of heat to Seungcheol’s veins.

With hesitant hands, Jihoon tugs at the waistband of Seungcheol’s jeans. “You doing okay there, champ?” he asks. The rough quality of his voice mixes strangely with his playful choice of words. He manages to pop the button of Seungcheol’s pants before Seungcheol hastily takes over, chucking his shirt over his head while he’s at it.

Jihoon looks up at Seungcheol, his head tilted back to compensate for their height difference. He trails both hands down Seungcheol’s chest, his stomach, and rests them on either side of Seungcheol’s hips. Biting his lip again, he rests his weight back against the door and shifts his full attention to Seungcheol’s cock.

First, his fingers glide gingerly up Seungcheol’s erection, uncertain but curious. When he takes Seungcheol into his grip, he gives a few firm strokes. Seungcheol  _ whines _ , bowing his head forward. Smiling, Jihoon kisses Seungcheol’s neck and continues to pump him, smearing precum over his length on the way down.

“Jihoonie,” Seungcheol groans, his voice thick and low. The sound of it vibrates all the way down to Jihoon’s cock.

With a huff, Seungcheol gathers Jihoon into his arms, lifting him off the ground again. Jihoon squeaks and wraps his arms around Seungcheol’s neck. Within moments, he finds himself spread out on the studio bench, staring up at Seungcheol with wide eyes.

Seungcheol straddles his waist, bracing Jihoon’s hips with his thick thighs without bearing his weight down on him. Jihoon rests his hands there, kneading the flesh with firm fingertips.

“So, um,” Seungcheol starts. He fiddles with the tube of lube, passing it between both hands. “Did you want me to—or did you—?”

At this point, Seungcheol can’t say he has a preference. His preference is getting Jihoon off—seeing him unravel under his fingers. He’s already halfway there, with the way that Jihoon’s hair is matted with sweat against the sides of his head, a flush deep in his cheeks, his swollen cock curved against the flat plane of his stomach.

Conflict crosses Jihoon’s expression. He stares down at their erections, which are not quite touching thanks to Seungcheol hovering above him.

“Um—” Jihoon drags his eyes up to look at Seungcheol. “I thought—you might—”

Seungcheol shrugs and shakes his head.

Humming, Jihoon sits up a little. Seungcheol follows him and sits back on his heels once there’s space. For a moment or two, Jihoon seems preoccupied with stroking Seungcheol’s thighs, tracing the lines of muscles with his palms, dragging his touch along the sides up into the warmth leading to his dick. Jihoon rubs his thumbs into the crease of Seungcheol’s legs before he grabs Seungcheol’s erection again.

“C’mere,” Jihoon murmurs.

With his free hand, Jihoon slips the lube out of Seungcheol’s grip. He pours some onto Seungcheol’s cock and gives him a few slick pumps. Panting, Seungcheol braces his weight onto his arms, planting his hands on either side of Jihoon’s shoulders.

Again, Jihoon shifts so he’s sitting higher on the bench. He grabs a handful of Seungcheol’s ass and squeezes. Then, with a gentle tug, he guides Seungcheol’s hips closer and brings their cocks together.

The sight of Jihoon’s slender fingers dragging up and down their erections is almost too much. Pleasure burns through Seungcheol, hot and bright, and his legs quiver as he keeps himself upright. But it’s not long before Seungcheol finds himself hungry for more: he adjusts his weight so that he can thrust forward into the tight ring of Jihoon’s fist, grinding their cocks together.

Jihoon moans openly at that, his own hips jerking upward. It breaks the rhythm of his hand, giving Seungcheol a moment to pause.

“Hey,” he murmurs. 

Jihoon looks up, chest heaving, and makes a questioning noise.

“How about—” Seungcheol starts, taking the lube again. “How about I ride you?” he suggests.

Jihoon’s eyes widen. He wets his lips with his tongue before replying, “Are you—sure?”

Seungcheol nods. “I’m already up here, anyway.” He pauses to grin. “You like my thighs, huh?” he adds, teasing. 

Frowning—though the expression comes dangerously close to a pout—Jihoon averts his eyes. “Maybe,” he admits under his breath. Nonetheless, his hands return to Seungcheol’s thighs to give them a squeeze. 

“I like that you like them,” Seungcheol says, trying for reassurance. His lips curl upward in a smile.

Jihoon huffs, but he tightens his grip. He glides his palms up the length of Seungcheol’s thighs and drags his nails over his skin on the way back down. Seungcheol shudders, his breath falling out of his mouth in an erratic pattern.

“‘S nice,” he murmurs, focusing on the sensation of Jihoon’s hands on his body as he spreads lube over his fingers.

Jihoon opens his mouth to speak, but he thinks better of it. He stares openly at his hyung, watching as Seungcheol reaches around to prepare himself. Again, Jihoon brings their cocks together, and Seungcheol bends to meet him. Seungcheol grinds down, panting through the sweet friction, happy for the distraction from his own fingers stretching him.

“Do you…” Jihoon trails off and swallows. “Do you want help?” he offers.

Eyes shut now, Seungcheol hums. “Thinking about it,” he mumbles in reply. He jerks his hips forward again, sliding their cocks together, and Jihoon whimpers in response.

“Mmmn,” Jihoon sighs, “okay.”

Jihoon reaches his free hand around to squeeze Seungcheol’s ass. He can feel Seungcheol’s muscles twitching as he continues to finger himself, so he gives Seungcheol what he hopes is an encouraging pat. Seungcheol huffs out a laugh.

“I think…” Seungcheol straightens up, pulling his hand out with a shiver. “I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Jihoon asks, lifting a hand to cup Seungcheol’s cheek.

Seungcheol dips his head down to claim Jihoon’s mouth in a sweet kiss, humming his affirmation. Relaxing some, Seungcheol curls his body over Jihoon’s, licking into his mouth at a leisurely pace. Jihoon keens low in his throat, wanting nothing more than to be swallowed whole.

And when Seungcheol lowers his body onto Jihoon’s cock, it sort of feels like what he imagined being swallowed whole would be like. Gasping, Jihoon snaps his chest forward. He’s careful not to shift his hips, however, as he grabs Seungcheol’s shoulders with a death grip.

“Jihoon-ah,” Seungcheol whimpers. His stomach trembles as he slides lower and lower, tight and hot and slick around Jihoon’s erection.

“Seungcheol,” Jihoon murmurs in response. He buries his face into the crook of Seungcheol’s neck and tries his best to stay as still as possible.

When Seungcheol bottoms out, he heaves a shaky exhale. His weight is solid over Jihoon’s hips, strong, stable, sturdy. Jihoon strokes Seungcheol’s sides, and in response, Seungcheol wiggles in place. The gesture is cute, but the friction it causes has Jihoon gasping for air.

All Jihoon can do is sob Seungcheol’s name against his shoulder. Seungcheol presses forward, gathering Jihoon into his arms and holding him tightly against his chest.

A thousand sentiments bubble in Seungcheol’s throat, wrenched out of the pits of his guts by the heat encasing his body, by the hands curled into claws digging into his back, by the hot face pressed into his neck. He can’t bear to voice them, can hardly bear to acknowledge their existence, so he shifts his focus to the task at hand. With quaking thighs, he lifts his body up, gasping quietly at the burn. Jihoon clutches him closer.

Seungcheol’s breath stutters in his throat as he settles down again. Jihoon shifts his legs, spreading them wider, his breath hot against Seungcheol’s skin.

It takes a little while to establish a rhythm, but it brings about a certain feeling of power Seungcheol hadn’t been expecting.  _ He’s _ the one controlling Jihoon’s pleasure—and his in turn, but that’s not nearly as important. 

With a tiny smile, Seungcheol leans back and extracts Jihoon from his shoulder. Jihoon’s mouth is wet and his face is impossibly red.

“Seungcheol,” Jihoon mumbles, his voice cracking at the end.

Seungcheol grips Jihoon’s face in both hands and seals their mouths together. Jihoon rests his fingers on Seungcheol’s wrists, not quite holding him, content just to touch.

Seungcheol takes his time. Each lift and drop sends a wave of pleasure coursing through Seungcheol’s body, and he communicates it loudly, breaking away from Jihoon’s mouth to let his moans escape. In response, Jihoon wraps his arms around Seungcheol’s waist in a vice grip, watching Seungcheol raptly.

Jihoon nudges Seungcheol forward so he can sit up a bit more. Seungcheol allows it, bracing his arms against the backrest of the bench. The new angle gives Jihoon room to thrust upwards, wringing a ragged gasp from Seungcheol’s belly.

“Jihoon!” Seungcheol calls. He grinds his hips down, searching desperately for friction, and Jihoon tries his best to meet Seungcheol’s movements.

A choked sob rattles Seungcheol’s chest as they negotiate a clunky rhythm. It’s a little sloppy, but Seungcheol would rather have speed than precision right now, chasing orgasm like his life depended on it, brain hazy with pleasure. 

There are stars in Jihoon’s eyes as he stares up at Seungcheol, admiring the sweat pouring down the sides of his face, the dark flush settled in his cheeks, the way his lips twitch and stretch as he moans with abandon.

Seungcheol cries Jihoon’s name again as Jihoon wraps his fist around Seungcheol’s cock. Jihoon moves it easily, the slick sound of skin against skin obscene in the space of the studio.

“I’m—oh, god,” Seungcheol rasps. He digs his fingers into Jihoon’s shoulders.

Jihoon drags his mouth up the length of Seungcheol’s neck, scraping his skin with his teeth, before crushing their lips together. He swallows Seungcheol’s cries greedily, catching Seungcheol’s bottom lip between his teeth when Seungcheol’s mouth falls slack. His eyes are sharp as they remain trained on Seungcheol’s expression. He watches as Seungcheol’s face screws up when he comes, and it’s the hottest thing Jihoon has ever seen.

Seungcheol’s shuddering orgasm drags Jihoon over the edge with him. They twitch through it, panting harshly, their combined breaths playing an airy melody.

With a quiet huff of breath, Seungcheol leans back on his heels and brushes Jihoon’s bangs out of his eyes. Jihoon’s eyelids flutter as he stares up at Seungcheol through his eyelashes.

Jihoon cranes his neck, reaching for a kiss. Seungcheol gives one to him easily, smiling through it, still stroking Jihoon’s hair.

They don’t speak as they clean up. Seungcheol stretches his legs, using the bench for balance, and Jihoon shuffles off to gather their clothes. When Jihoon pokes his head out of Seungcheol’s shirt, their eyes meet. Jihoon holds his breath.

Instead of saying anything, Seungcheol reaches over and picks up the lube from the bench. He tosses it at Jihoon. After some fumbling, Jihoon manages to keep it within his grasp, and when he looks up again, he finds Seungcheol grinning.

They both burst into laughter.

“You’re… god. You’re certainly something, huh?” Seungcheol asks, leaning his hip against the wall. He’s avoiding sitting down.

Jihoon shrugs. “You seemed to enjoy it, though,” Jihoon says. He pockets the lube with a wry smile. “Which is—you know. Good.”

“A poet in the works, here.”

“Oh, shut up.” Jihoon blushes and runs a hand through his hair. It’s still damp with sweat, and some strands stick up as he lowers his hand again.

“So.” Seungcheol points at the computer monitor on the other side of the room. 

Jihoon follows his gesture with his eyes. The wry smile on his face remains.

Surprisingly, they manage to get a decent amount of work done that night.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway can y'all believe i managed to squeeze something out before the fic fest
> 
> find me on twitter @shujeongs, thanks for reading ❤


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